


parce-que c’etait lui, parce-que c’etait moi

by moscattomilk



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Peach scene, and probably none of the artistry, based off CMBYN, with all the artistic liberty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-10 18:51:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15297786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moscattomilk/pseuds/moscattomilk
Summary: At some point Yuuri had appropriated that blue shirt he'd first seen Victor in, nicknamed "billowy". It hung loose and airy from Yuuri's smaller frame, like the curtains that swelled with the wind from the windows they both left open.If anyone noticed, they never made comment.





	parce-que c’etait lui, parce-que c’etait moi

o. squint

His name was Victor Nikiforov. 

"You aren't greeting him, Yuuri?" Mari slurred through the cigarette hanging limp from her parted lips. 

Sluggish with heat, the pair lay with their limbs akimbo and shirts rucked up. From below rose the sound of voices, clambering over and meshing with one another in an amalgamated monstrosity of gentle timbre and bubbly pitch neither sibling felt particularly obliged nor equipped to deal with at present moment. 

"Sooner or later," Yuuri mustered the energy to respond. His brows furrowed at the effort it took. 

Mari snorted. Cryptic as ever, her brother. 

  


i. Victor,

surname Nikiforov. Twenty-four. He had: 

Steel-blue eyes and a charmer's smile, one that crooked the corners of his mouth up into a perfectly symmetrical heart. A Greek statue's physique. Cheekbones that could cut glass. A model's posture, decked out in summery espadrilles and a billowy blue shirt (that brought out his eyes) in a casual French tuck. 

He had, also:  
A way with words and a television voice, layered with an accent that curled its way around letters like dark chocolate. His hair, coloured platinum, was styled with a fringe that swept handsomely across one eye. Movie-star-suave.

Flawless, down to the crescents of his manicured nails. 

Dictionary perfect. 

Vapid. 

Yuuri knew this much from shuffling through files and files of names and faces and drafted dissertations, slumped over the heavy wooden desk in his father's office. He'd been the one to pluck Victor's application from the (mountainous) pile, after all, one hand tapping a mindless rhythm on the polished oak surface, the other with a finger raised to trace the visage of a caricature of a person. He'd pictured it; the charismatic people-pleaser, bright student and role model, paragon of popularity and pleasantry. Networks of friends and notes in lockers, Valentine's gifts and busy tables. A giver and taker in equal measures. 

Yuuri'd never been that sort of person. He was quiet, kept to himself, slow, laconic, reticent. He'd been intrigued, much like the audience of a documentary, to study the function of such a curious creature in close quarters.

And so the first week played out, seven days of Victor the accommodating prince, endlessly winsome, faultlessly beguiling. He ate with them and drank with them and held clever conversation, gave dutiful praise for the cooking and settled into Yuuri's begrudgingly-vacated room. He assimilated with the unsurprising ease of an exceptionally darling parasite. 

But there were things Yuuri hadn't accounted for. As a sort of discount tour guide Yuuri had all the proximity of a front-row cinema-goer to witness Victor's range of idiosyncrasies, and he found - 

that Victor's hellos were facsimiles of his goodbyes, peppy and clipped, callous greetings that betrayed an invariable delight to take off and return, like he had no inclination to leave or stay. He was cheery in comport, a characteristic that blinked out of existence, as if at the flick of a switch, the moment he was left alone. In his clear blue eyes held the edge of something deeper, darker, keener. 

It manifested in his unreadable silences, his pensive lulls and pregnant pauses. The way he held his pen. The way he placed his chin in his hand, careful cradle, index finger propped on the curve of his bottom lip. Yuuri observed from the safe and measured distances of the couch, the chair in the garden, the cobblestone pathway where he rested atop his trusty, rusty bicycle and waited for Victor to finish his cigarette before they could go; and Yuuri clocked them all in a little mental notebook he titled, aptly, _The Episodes of an Empty Man_.

One afternoon, as he watched Victor trip over the handle of his unpacked suitcase and halt mid-curse, only to force his mouth in the outline of a hasty beam when he caught Yuuri in the doorway, Yuuri was struck with the startling conclusion that he was undeniably attracted to this strange, magnetising dichotomy of a man.

  


ii. Katsuki Yuuri (and his sweet brown eyes)

was aged eighteen and took to lazing lengthwise by the side of the pool with a book held up over his head, while Victor swam laps and pondered his paper out loud.

"I don't think that works," Yuuri would interject, sotto voce. "Consider this," he'd say, then recite some obscure fact that only having an internationally-acclaimed professor as a father and several chock-full bookcases but no game consoles for eighteen years would endow you with.

Today, he let a foot graze the surface of the water as he spoke, dipping beneath in a desultory fashion. Taunting, ever graceful, poised like a ballerina _en pointe_. 

Victor swam up and caught the ankle in his hand, fingertips massaging the rounded bone in steady circles before skimming up and over the curve of his calf. The foot twitched imperceptibly underwater, toes curling a fraction. Yuuri, spellbound, leaned into the caress. If Victor'd looked up then he'd have seen a strawberry-flush snake its way across the bridge of Yuuri's nose, blossoming into his cheeks like patches of poppy.

"I like the way you say things. Don't know why you always put yourself down, though," Victor murmured senselessly, because he'd caught Yuuri starting and stopping and thinking so hard sometimes. The skin under his hand was pliant and heated. 

Yuuri turned his gaze onto Victor, milk chocolate and maple syrup glaze, and unceremoniously slapped his hand off his ankle. 

"So you won't, I guess."

He picked up his things and made to leave, but stopped at the sound of Victor's voice. 

"Yuuri, wait, no, do you want to see pictures of my dog?"

  


iii. medusa

Whenever they went to town he'd catch a girl or two latching onto Victor's shoulders, his arms, his wrists his hands his fingers. They'd press and mould themselves into his sides like malleable things as he laughed and winked, tittering at appropriate junctures and bending so the necks of their tops dipped low. Once Yuuri'd heard Victor stumble in past midnight, and the next morning at breakfast Victor had complained about mosquitoes while he scratched at a (suspicious, more-bruise-than-) 'bug bite'. Yuuri had cracked his egg harder than necessary and watched the yolk spill with nothing less than a vindictive satisfaction.

This phenomenon hadn't relented, in spite of the change in setting.

"Have this, Yuuri," Yuuko called, gently nudging over a tall glass of lemonade. The sides glistened with condensation, pooling readily on the table in the sweltering heat. Yuuri himself sat in cuffed shorts and a thin tee with the sleeves pushed up to his shoulders, seething partly with the temperature and partly with an emotion he'd rather leave unnamed.

"You like him, don't you? Victor?" Yuuko remarked with a tilt of her head, chestnut hair spilling out of her ponytail.

"Everyone likes Victor."

"He likes you too - more than you do, I think."

A pause.

"Is that your impression?"

"No, it was Victor's."

"When did he tell you that?"

"A while ago."

"...I don't believe you."

Yuuko merely harrumphed, rather righteously.

A metre away from the line of lime trees Yuuko's friends were going practically ballistic, giggling with excess volume and batting their lashes at unnatural frequency as Victor lobbed a ball over the net. Shirtless and barefoot, he cut the figure of a modern Adonis wreathed in the incandescence of the sun.

"Yuuri? Yuuri!" Yuuko yelped, hands waving frantically in front of his face. Yuuri snapped out of his fugue and felt dampness drip thick and slow down his chin, pouring from his nose in a cherry-coloured rivulet.

"Oh, shit."

Alerted by Yuuko, Victor cast a glance towards Yuuri. His eyes, limned in the white-gold light, looked crystalline, but quickly clouded over as his brows furrowed and mouth set. He jogged over with his earlier-discarded shirt, pressing it up to Yuuri's face.

"Come with me," he urged, pulling Yuuri up and out of his seat and manhandling him forward. A guiding hand thumbed the small of his back. Yuuri shivered, then caught an afterimage of varnished fingertips insinuating themselves on Victor's skin, and wrenched away from his touch.

"It happens all the time," he hissed.

  


iv. midnight letters

_~~i hate that~~ _  
_~~i dislike~~ _  
_~~i can't stand that~~ _  
_~~i can't stand the thought of you with someone else~~ _  
_~~i miss you~~ _  
_i want to see you._  
  


v. amends

"Talk about mixed signals," Victor quipped. The words tasted like burnt coffee in his mouth.

Yuuri, lying on his side in Victor's loaned bed and arms wrapped around Victor's pillow, stirred. He sprung up, noticeably blushing even in the dark, and began to stammer a greeting.

"I- I didn't - when'd you get back?"

"A little while ago."

Victor shifted and Yuuri flinched, eliciting a sigh from the other as he strode across the room and rummaged in the bedside drawer for a cigarette and a light.

"I haven't seen you in a while."

Victor hummed, exhaling in a haze of nicotine, shoulders dropping. The agelessness rolled off his body like a fallen coat. His eyes shuttered closed, weary. When they fluttered open again they were shrouded in a festering hurt, and his lips were twisted in the acidic mimicry of a smile.

"Good for you?" he snarked, tone incongruous with the delicate angle of his hand, the tilt of his jaw, the bob of his throat, the down of his moonlit hair.

Yuuri felt his heart stutter. Even in his anger Victor was a paradoxical fascination.

"I missed you." A weak protest. It wouldn't work. The blood was rushing in his ears, pulse jackrabbiting with the vulnerability his speech offered.

Another draw of the cigarette.

"What, you thought you'd come here, say a few things, and we'd fall into bed like a fairytale?"

Yuuri felt his face go red-hot in shame and defiance alike.

"I wanted to say - I wanted to apologise," he said, voice a wavering, unsteady thing. "For last time. I just couldn't - I didn't like that they'd touched you. First. I didn't want that."

The fight fell out of Victor instantly.

"You're the one I really want, Yuuri. The only one. From the start."

  


vi. la petite mort

Yuuri, he thought, was a deceptively honey-eyed thing.

The arch of his back as Victor worked him open was the curve of a sculpture, shaped to perfection in marble. He lay writhing, at the delicious mercy of Victor's brilliant fingers, his creamy skin _terra incognita_ bared for Victor to desecrate, to mark with the ovals of his fingertips and redden with his famished mouth. His kiss-stung lips parted on bitten-off whimpers, roaming hands carving possessive, searing lines down the expanse of Victor's back.

"If you want me," Victor panted, voice made level with effort, "call me by your name."

"Wha-"

A particularly vicious thrust and Yuuri melted into the sheets, legs falling loose and open. Victor leant down, pulling the air from his lips, and in a smooth motion sheathed the head of his cock in Yuuri's fluttering entrance.

Yuuri gasped, hands flying to link around Victor's neck. A collar he wouldn't mind wearing.

"Look me in the eye," Victor exhaled, hips undulating in cruel rhythm, "hold my gaze, and call me by your name."

Yuuri, irrevocably lost in the throes of pleasure, head thrown back and hair a midnight swathe against the turf of the pillow, formed the words:  
"Please, Yuuri, please, come into me."

  


vii. momo

Mama had picked him a peach earlier. The sweetest, she'd said. The sweetest she could find in the garden. But it didn't really matter, because anything that grew in their garden was inexplicably delicious. Like the peach, and its uneaten heft in his hand.

He wondered what it would be like to split the meat of it over his cock. Would it melt around him, like he did around Victor last night? Mould to his shape, yield endlessly to his liking? The fuzz, little iridescent hairs picking up the glow of the sunlight, tickled his hand as it rolled in his palm, whole and pretty. Ripe and sweet for the taking. Flesh-pink, like the silken head of Victor's blood-heavy dick.

The heat was getting to him now. A sort of muggy irritation, and with each passing second he grew increasingly annoyed. Beads of sweat left trails that gleamed in the buttery noon light, rivers of fire running streaks down the slopes of his body that glutted his mounting ire. His bare back stuck to the crumpled sheets like glue. He ran a careless thumb over the seam in the fruit, the one that reminded him so much of Victor, and, overcome with a morbid lust, pressed his thumb in, _hard_. The skin gave, and so did the supple flesh beneath. It gave, and gave, and gave still as he dug till his nail struck the gnarled pit - tossed aside - and he carved, like the antithesis of a master sculptor, an inviting little hollow. It parted, juicy, around the head of his phallus and engulfed it in a sticky, damp warmth. Yuuri alternated between working his hand up and down his length, the fruit and its crafted cavern skidding a wet, titillating rhythm along the ridges of his cock; and pushing his crown into the indentation, until he came to pieces and filled its pseudo-hollow in an imitation of insemination. 

Later, Victor walked in on Yuuri with his eyes half-lidded and his mind a universe away, naked on the bedding with his head pillowed on an arm and thick lashes brushing the cherubic curves of his cheeks at regular, lazy intervals. The other lay extended by his side, hand curled loosely in the outline of the violated fruit that sat innocently, ravaged, ooze-side up, on the nightstand. He sucked the syrup from Yuuri's cock till he shook and went still in Victor's throat.

"The animal kingdom isn't enough?" Victor teased, all cloying lilt and singsong edges. The pads of his fingers ghosted maddening circles on Yuuri's hips, following the wine-red shapes of his mouth on Yuuri's otherwise milk-pale skin.

"I can't stand mine, you know. But yours..." he trailed off, dipping a finger in the core of the peach and bringing it up to his mouth. A taste-test.

"Don't, Victor," Yuuri pleaded, his face flushed and body soft with orgasm. So precious. So loved. So known. An incubus in his own right. His hands circled ineffectually around Victor's wrists, weakening in grip as Victor's grin sharpened like a whetted knife.

Victor sank his teeth in the ruined peach and swallowed Yuuri whole.

" _Vkusno_."

  


viii. lovelorn

They fucked in every corner of the room. Against Yuuri's old desk, pressed up to the door, laid out on the floor. Yuuri thought they had re-written the Kama Sutra. Heated little escapades, replete with naked cuddles and sleepy, sun-drenched pillow-talk. Yuuri dared to initiate with a hand tucking itself under the waistband of Victor's swim shorts in passing, and Victor would give back twice as good with dangerous games of footsie under the table at dinner.

"I want to know all of you," Victor had breathed into his ear. "Inside-out. So well that I don't know where you end and I begin. Victor, Victor, Victor."

At some point Yuuri had appropriated that blue shirt he'd first seen Victor in, nicknamed "billowy". It hung loose and airy from Yuuri's smaller frame, like the curtains that swelled with the wind from the windows they both left open.

If anyone noticed, they never made comment.

  


ix. you, me, us

The day Victor left Yuuri was inconsolable. He cried into Mama's chest like he was five again, snot-nosed and scraped up from a fall in the road. Except this time it was his heart that felt like it couldn't be put back together, and not the skin of his hands and knees.

"You know, Yuuri," Papa mused, hands gentle in Yuuri's hair as Yuuri curled up on the sofa, listless and drained. "You two had a nice friendship. Perhaps a little more than that."

Yuuri, somewhat evasive, nodded in lieu of an actual reply.

"It will be alright, Yuuri. If there is a pain, nurse it. If there is a flame, don't snuff it out. Don't be brutal with it. You will come around."

"Does Mama know?"

"Her feelings are no different than mine."

When Yuuri opened the door to his room he was disconcerted by its unfamiliarity. It could be the mixture of smells, the lingering scent of cigarette smoke and Victor's shampoo. The absence of his absent-minded clutter. Perhaps the missing frame on the wall, in its place a folded-up sheet from a mis-typed manuscript.

It read, in Victor's looping script:  
_I've taken this with me because it reminded me of you. I won't forget, so please don't too. Billowy's in the closet._  
_Yours, always,_  
_Yuuri._

  


x. remade

"Not going?" Mari asked. Yuuri twitched faintly on the bed.

A parody, he thought, a mirror of the year before. His gaze trained, vacant, on the plain white ceiling, body burning with the memory of a distant touch.

"No."

Beneath, a car turning in the driveway, wheels spitting gravel. Yuuri hadn't helped in the selection this year, opting to sit (morosely, though he'd never admit it) before the baby grand, poking at keys aimlessly while his parents hemmed and hawed and finally lifted a paper-clipped application, from which the face of some blonde-haired green-eyed blur leered blamelessly. Privately, unreasonably, Yuuri'd had the hateful thought that he was stupendously bland, but clamped down on this folly in time to send an unaffected inclination of his head his parents' way.

Mama's welcome, a happy trill. Papa's hearty chuckle. A stranger's _bonjour_ , and -

"You might want to, this time."

Yuuri sat up, eyes wide.  
He scrambled off the bed, shoving an arm in the sleeve of that worn blue shirt, feet flying as he thudded down the stairs and burst through the doorway.

"I guess phone calls weren't enough, huh," Victor grinned, arms _open_.

**Author's Note:**

> whew. some lines have been lifted from the script/ the book (they were too pretty to leave out!). i don't think i did them justice at all, not even close, but i had so much fun writing this. (i'm pretty lazy so it turned out a bit of a mess, though. where is makkachin? who even is yuuri's dad? are they in hasetsu? who knows) feel free to leave any thoughts, comments, corrections below. thanks a whole bunch for stopping by and reading :)


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